


Let the Games Begin

by Zeplerfer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, Archery, Basketball, Drunkenness, Freudian Dreams, London, M/M, Olympics, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeplerfer/pseuds/Zeplerfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time London has hosted the Olympics, England has invited America to stay at his house during the Games, providing three glimpses into the Special Relationship and what makes it so special. USUK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Olympics 2012, Part I

_London Olympics 2012 – Bedroom Olympics_

When the door bell rang multiple times in quick succession, England knew precisely who was waiting at the door. Only one nation would be so impatient as to think that pressing the bell repeatedly would make England reach the door any faster.

He walked down the stairs at a leisurely pace—no need to rush to see America or let the other nation know just how excited England was for his visit, America's ego was already ridiculously large. By the time England opened the door, America had rung the bell another 16 times, filling the old mansion house with a cacophony of ringing bells.

"England, finally! I thought you'd fallen down the stairs or something, it took you so long. I was about to rush in to save the day like a hero!" America blurted out and then laughed in his characteristically loud manner, all before England even had a chance to say hello. America stood impatiently on the stoop, casually holding more duffel bags full of sports equipment than one person should be able to carry, but he did have that ridiculous strength of his.

The older nation prepared to level some well-deserved criticism at America's lack of manners when he took another look at America's sport supplies. "Are you carrying a basketball hoop stand?" he asked in surprise.

"Yup! I need to practice and basketball is kinda my thing, you know," America responded with a grin and without so much as a by-your-leave, he dumped most of his bags into the entryway, before carrying the hoop stand towards the backyard.

"Be careful with that!" England called out, wincing as the basketball hoop nearly took out one of his favorite antique lamps.

"No worries, mate, I've got it under control," America said as he carried the hoop through the kitchen and towards the back door. England winced as the hoop stand bumped against the stove. He had just had his kitchen remodeled after his most recent kitchen mishap and he wanted to keep it in pristine condition. Unfortunately, he still had no idea how that kettle of water had set fire to the entire room. The basketball hoop brushed against a doorframe and knocked some pots and pans, but thankfully avoided any permanent damage.

England heaved a sigh of relief and followed America outside. He leaned against the doorframe and resumed his usual criticism. "Honestly, it's bad enough that Australia insists on using that ridiculous lingo of his, don't you start."

America glanced over from his makeshift basketball court and grinned again, adopting a horrible Australian accent. "Aww, c'mon, mate, don't be such a wowser. Australia and I went scuba diving last week and it was totally awesome. He taught me 'strine so I could blend in!"

England snorted. America's Australian accent was even worse than his atrocious English one, which was really saying something. "If you want to learn a new language so badly, might I suggest the Queen's English?" England asked, crisply enunciating his beautiful accent. He never missed a chance to remind America why it was called English instead of American (even if a few clueless Americans did insist that they 'spoke American').

America just laughed. "Aw, you're just a whinging pom who's upset ya don't have fun lingo like us. You gotta learn to loosen up."

"Well, 'drongo,' perhaps I would rather be thought stodgy than be incomprehensible." England replied with a frown on his face but a smile in his eyes. Two could play at this game of Australian insults.

"Drongo, huh? I like it! Sometimes I get bored of being a toss-pot, and a pillock, and a git, and a bloody idiot, and an insufferable twit." With each insult, America walked a few steps closer, until he was just a few inches away from England. "Did I forget any?" he asked, grinning.

"You're daft." England leaned forward and their lips met in a soft kiss.

"I missed you," America said when they pulled apart. He gave England that special, soft smile that America reserved just for puppies and his boyfriend. It was not nearly as wide as America's usual brash grin, but it was a thousand times sweeter.

"Me too," England agreed, responding with his own genuinely affectionate smile. "Silly fool," he added after a second, although he wasn't sure if he meant America or himself.

America lifted up the basketball that he had been holding at his side. "Did you want to shoot some hoops?" he asked.

"Mmm, I was thinking of something a tad more gymnastic," replied England, making his meaning clear with a quirk of his lips and a slight arch of his eyebrows.

"Ooh, sounds like a plan, babe," America agreed eagerly. He glanced back and tossed the basketball so that it swished through the hoop. "He shoots... he scores!" he exclaimed happily. England shook his head at his show-off boyfriend, then tugged him inside so they could enjoy England's favorite type of aerobics.

As soon as America shut the door behind him, England pounced. He pinned America against the kitchen counter and began to smother him with kisses and playful nips. He started at America's mouth, then worked his way south along his boyfriend's jaw and to his neck. He licked the collarbone sticking out alluringly beneath America's white cotton t-shirt, before returning to the other nation's lips. America responded eagerly, hungrily inserting his tongue into England's mouth as he wrapped his hands around the other nation's lean waist, lifting up the shirt to caress the pale skin underneath.

England moaned with pleasure, not even caring that all it took was a bit of snogging to make him half-hard. Remembering his desire to keep his newly-remodeled kitchen clean and pristine, he pressed his thighs against America and murmured, "Bedroom." Even clueless America would understand that message.

America responded with a noise half-way between a grunt and a moan, but he clearly understood the point. He lifted England up, allowing England to wrap his legs around America's waist. England continued smothering him with kisses as the American stumbled his way up the stairs. America always claimed that he liked to carry the Brit around as a form of weight-lifting practice, but England suspected that America just liked the opportunity to have his hands all over England's bum. Not that England was complaining, mind you. He liked having America's hands on his ass just as much as America did. Perhaps even more. They tumbled together past the open bedroom door and onto the clean sheets of England's four-poster bed.

Once on the bed, England kicked off his shoes with a single, practiced motion and they began the frenzied task of undressing each other while maintaining as much contact as possible. From his position underneath the larger nation, England unbuttoned America's jeans and pulled down on the zipper. He was half-tempted to use his teeth, but his lips were too busy kissing America's neck. Soon their trousers, jeans, and boxers lay crumbled together on the floor next to the bed. America rolled onto his back, giving England enough room to lose his sweater vest and dress shirt. America slipped off his shirt immediately afterward and they were finally, gloriously naked together on the bed, bodies already glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

America was closest to the night table, so he quickly twisted to reach the table drawer, from which he pulled out a condom and lube. "Pitcher or catcher tonight, babe?" he asked with a husky voice and a wink.

England groaned at the euphemism. "Baseball isn't even an Olympic sport anymore," he retorted. For some reason, the younger nation liked to use sport euphemisms whenever they got together for sporting events. At the 2010 FIFA World Cup he even referred to them as "kicker and goalie," which England had noted was a horrible metaphor since the whole point of a goalie was to keep the ball out. Thankfully, that put an end to the football euphemisms. America could use whatever dirty lingo he wanted based on his own national sport, but England preferred to keep football out of their sex life.

America grinned. "Who said anything about baseball?" he asked innocently. Only America could manage to look so innocent while holding out a condom and a bottle of lube.

England grabbed the lube and pushed America back onto the bed, before straddling the larger nation. America moaned and jerked his hips upward, but England wasn't going to let him off that easily. He leaned forward and whispered teasingly into America's ear, "You know, equestrianism is an Olympic sport."

"Y'ain't… got… a horse," America managed to pant, attempting to return England's teasing despite the level of need made obvious by his every moan and panting breath. America knew England liked the verbal foreplay almost as much as the physical stuff, so he did his best to oblige.

"No, but I've got a cowboy," England purred. He slicked up his fingers with lube and slid one in easily, moaning in pleasure and eliciting a lusty moan from America.

"Fuck yeah!" America cried enthusiastically. He slid his broad, callused hands up England's thighs, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from the British nation. Then America began rubbing England with those wonderful hands, bringing a new wave of desire with each jerk. It threatened to send England over the edge right then and there, and he was still on his first finger.

England used his free hand to lift America's hands onto his lean waist. "Hold your horses, cowboy," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. America firmly grasped England's waist as England inserted his second finger.

America grinned. "Wish… I'd brought… my cowboy hat."

"Nnh… I wish I had spurs." England tightened his legs around America as he forced in the third finger.

"Ooh, kinky."

Seeing the expectant look on England's face, America hastily unwrapped the condom and slipped it on. England coated it with lube. The lube bottle was then flung into the sheets as England lowered himself carefully downward in a single motion. He paused for a second, growing accustomed to the width, before setting a rough and breathless tempo. America quickly matched the galloping pace, grinding with his hips and resuming the rubbing motion once more with his large hands.

England moaned in pleasure each time he hit his prostrate and underneath him, he could hear America calling his name. The sound of pounding blood filled his ears. England felt himself rapidly building to climax and seconds after he felt America jolt, his own vision filled with white. He fell forward, limply landing on America's broad chest. They lay entwined for a glorious eternity, enjoying the warmth and proximity. It felt good to be so close, given the entire ocean that normally lay between them.

Eventually, England rolled over onto his side and simply drank in the view. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, as he trailed his fingers through America's hair. Over sixty years into their special relationship and he still felt a little like a giddy schoolgirl as they lay gazing into each other's eyes. He was too reserved to show it often, but sometimes the words just slipped out.

"Same to you, beautiful." America smiled back, his blue eyes radiating honest affection. "And ya know, if sex was an Olympic event, you'd definitely take the gold."

England chuckled. "I appreciate the thought… but darling, for the love of all that's holy, don't ever, ever, suggest that idea to France."


	2. London Olympics 1908

_London Olympics 1908 – Second Chance (Blame France)_

"This is all your bloody fault," England muttered, pointing at France with an extremely unsteady finger. France, England, and America perched on stools at the edge of the bar in the dimly-lit corner of a popular London pub, surrounded by the sounds of many happily drunk men celebrating the successful completion of the Olympic games.

"My fault?" France responded indignantly, his words barely slurred by his earlier consumption of wine. "Mon ami, I hardly see how the eruption of Mount Vesuvius can be blamed on me. Or if you mean the games themselves, then truly, that blame belongs to Greece," he testily explained. The 1908 Olympics had originally been scheduled for Rome, but after an ill-timed explosion from Mt. Vesuvius, they were rescheduled for London. England was still a touch annoyed at the lack of advance warning, but everyone admitted that his country had done a masterful job with only two years to prepare.

"No, no, no," England complained. "This is your fault," he said, gestured at America.

"Hey!" America protested. He had been sipping his lemonade, simply enjoying the free entertainment of watching England and France becoming progressively more inebriated. They would fight over whether the sky was blue if given half a chance. Of course, since they were currently in London, there was a strong likelihood the sky wasn't blue. But it wasn't any fun if they insisted on bringing him into their arguments. Didn't they know America had no interest in meddling in European affairs?

France smirked. "Au contraire, America is most certainly England's fault…"

America protested that he was awesome and definitely not anyone's fault, but both sides continued to ignore him in favor of their ongoing spat.

"Not that!" England exclaimed, slamming down his glass and sloshing a good measure of gin and tonic onto the counter. "It's your fault that he's staying at my bloody house instead of renting his own bloody hotel room. I have to put up with this obnoxious git who doesn't even have the manners to lower his flag to the King during the bloody opening ceremonies."

"Please, I was not the one who opened your house to Amérique. If I controlled your guest list, I would surely be bedding there myself," France said with a cheerful leer.

"Ugh. If you hadn't convinced those daft hotel employees that our 'Entente Cordiale' was actually a French marriage license, and then snuck into my bedroom, I would have never ended up staying in America's guest bedroom during the St. Louis Olympics and would not have felt honor-bound to offer him a guest bedroom for the London Olympics. So, as I was saying, it's all your fault." England finished off his gin and tonic in a single gulp and scowled at the empty glass as if it were France.

"How absurd. Blame your own over-developed sense of gentlemanly duties, do not blame moi." France swallowed from his glass with a look of distaste, muttering unkind words about inferior English wines. He had brought his own delectable vintages, but those had already disappeared far earlier in the evening. "Besides, it was a marriage license."

"If it were a marriage, then I would deserve a divorce on the grounds of adultery. You hop into a different nation's bed every other week," England complained, meanwhile signaling the bartender for a re-fill of his gin and tonic.

France shrugged and sighed. "What can I say? Forever is not something that is possible among our kind. Despite the words and the promises, all relationships prove fleeting in time. 'I love you' doesn't mean 'I'll never leave you.' Surely you know that better than most." He favored with England with a knowing look.

America watched England and France sip their poison of choice in sullen silence for a few more minutes. He had the sinking suspicion that they were talking about him. And not in a good way. He decided that it was time to find a new source of entertainment. He glanced around the room and his eyes lit upon the familiar sight of some of his Olympic athletes. Quickly slipping off his stool, he made his way through the crowded room to congratulate his athletes. They accepted his praise with a laugh and a hearty slap on the back. The slap would have been enough to send most men reeling, but America just shrugged it off, greatly impressing the group of wrestlers. They regaled him with tales of their travels and even demonstrated some of their favorite wrestling moves. They bragged about how the members of the Irish American Athletic Club had earned 10 gold medals, more than France, Germany, and Norway combined, making America feel very smug indeed. He reminded himself to brag about it later to France. By the time they were finished, it was almost closing time.

Giddy with excitement, America finally made his way back to France and England. "That was amazing. I just made friends with the Whales!" He exclaimed. He grinned at France's blank look and explained, "The Irish Whales, those wrestlers over there."

France assessed the group of bulky athletes with half-lidded eyes. "Hmm, not really my type. Too… hulking," he concluded, waving his hand dismissively.

"I thought your type was anything that moved?" America asked with a grin.

"Stop repeating Angleterre's lies. I do have some standards. My type is more slender, graceful, blond for preference, and, of course, spirited."

They both glanced at England, waiting for his furious, sputtering response. Instead of preparing a witty comeback, however, he lay slumped across the counter. Eyes closed. Drooling. After a few moments, he finally muttered, "Damn frog."

America laughed and even his loud obnoxious laughter wasn't enough to cause the Brit to do more than frown. "Well, it's probably time to call it a night when England's too drunk to yell at you for your flirtations."

"En fait, I find the night usually begins when he stops yelling." France smirked, but he quickly wiped the smirk off the face when he noticed the hard look in America's eyes. "Kidding, kidding!" he reassured the larger nation.

With a little help from France, America positioned England across his back, carrying the drunken British nation piggy-back style. England was still somewhat conscious, since he managed to tighten his arms around America's neck. Fortunately, they had picked a pub close to England's London house. France and America walked along the well-lit sidewalks of the Thames Embankment, taking care to dodge the drunk patrons now filling the streets as the nearby pubs closed down. Horse-drawn carriages and the occasional automobile passed by.

"It's easy to see why England drinks as much as he does, given his people's obvious love of intoxication," France commented wryly as he delicately stepped over a drunk passed out next to the gutter.

America grinned. "Oh, I can think of a few other countries that like their liquor just a bit too much…" He liked teasing France. They didn't see eye-to-eye on social matters like alcohol or sex, but they were both Republics and when it came to the really important stuff, like democracy, they generally agreed. Plus, France would always make a witty comeback instead of calling him a stupid git. Sometimes France was a little too friendly with the hugs and the kisses, but he was otherwise good company.

"I assure you, my people enjoy wine for its fine flavor, not merely its intoxicating effects. We are not uncultured tee-totalers like yourself." France smirked, favoring America with a superior look.

"You know, sometimes I really don't know what my folks think about booze," America admitted. His people had a love-hate relationship with alcohol, so America mostly decided to stick with lemonade. Everyone loved lemonade, especially in the hot summer months. The walked in silence as America double-checked the street signs. He was pretty sure he knew the way back, but old European cities were just so confusing with their haphazard street layouts. He wished every capital city could be as well planned as D.C.

France gestured to the burden on America's back and smiled. "C'est merveilleux to see you restoring your ties with Angleterre. I hope we can all enjoy more 'intimate' relations soon. The Great Rapprochement, l'Entente Cordiale… these cordial relations must be expressed in French because it is la langue de l'amour."

"That's nice. Uh, France, isn't your hotel in the other direction?" America asked as they arrived at the front door of England's house.

"I was hoping for une invitation," the French nation said with a lecherous wink.

"Huh?"

"Mon dieu, some days you can be more clueless than Spain."

America scrunched his nose for a few moments. What did people normally do after they'd been drinking? "Ooh!" he cried in realization. "You want a cup of coffee, right?"

France leered. "Or 'tea,' I'm not particular."

America laughed uproariously. "Silly France, England isn't going to let you have any of his tea. He hoards his supply like crazy."

France sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, I suppose not. And you're not going to let me partake of his 'tea' either. Honestly, your national motto should be 'Entendre sans comprendre.'" America simply tuned him out, which is what he usually did when France started speaking French. Instead, he dug around in his pockets for his guest key. He had to have lots of pockets because heroes were always prepared for any emergency.

"America?" England mumbled, his voice muffled as he spoke into America's neck. For once, he didn't sound irritated, just like he wanted to make sure that America was still there.

"I'm here," America replied reassuringly, and he felt England's arms tighten around him. Maybe England wasn't quite as much fun as France and he definitely couldn't hold his liquor as well as France, but America was glad that England was letting him stay at his house for the Olympics. England and America had actually been getting along rather well for the past decade. They could enjoy each other's company and it felt like old times, except that now it was even better than old times because England had finally started to treat him like an equal. America had a really good feeling about the new century. There was so much he wanted to see and do and there was so much waiting to be discovered! This was going to be his century.

After a few more minutes of digging in his pockets, he finally found the guest key. "Got it!" he shouted triumphantly, brandishing the key in the air.

France sighed. "Seeing as how I'm not wanted here, I'll sashay off."

. . .

England was standing in a field. Not the gentle green fields of his own country, but a wilder, harsher landscape. Grasses of every shape and color rose to the level of his knees. Spring flowers dotted the land with blotches of bright orange and purple and blue, filling the vista as far as the eye could see. England realized that he was standing in an American prairie and he quickly spun around, checking the horizons for any sign of his little brother.

He spotted the child on the distant horizon and tried to call for America, but no words came out. Instead, the child began to race through the fields, away from England, forcing England to follow behind.

As he ran, chasing the distant blond cowlick, the grass continued to grow around him. The flowers disappeared, leaving green and golden stalks of summer grass in their wake. But no matter how tall the grasses grew around him, England could always see the cowlick just barely above the tips of the grass. He ran for an eternity, never tiring. As the grasses faded to orange and red, the autumn colors of a prairie sunset, he finally emerged from the grass and came face to face with America.

America stood full-grown, with France at his side. England eyed them warily and he scowled when he saw France's smirk. "Damn frog," he muttered. He knew what France was trying to say—you took something I loved and now I am returning the favor. France turned to face America, cupped his jaw, and gave the younger nation a passionate kiss. After a few moments, America pushed France away and once again resumed running into the distance, laughing loudly as he raced ever westward.

This time, England didn't follow. He turned and retraced his steps, back the way he had come before, but the grass had lost all color. Instead of beautiful, verdant plants, he was now surrounded by stalks of dead and dying grass. The sky grew dim and snow began to fall, covering the fields with a layer of white. England continued to trudge through the thickly falling snow, making his way back to the place he remembered from his earliest memories of America. The snow and the wind ripped at his clothes, filling his entire body with a chill that he feared would never leave. England fell to his knees, unable to tear his gaze away from the frozen ground beneath his outstretched arms.

His eyes told him that the ground was dead and lifeless, but his hands told another story. They felt warmth and the slow and steady heartbeat of the earth. He grasped the ground tightly with his hands. As he watched, the snow melted, revealing tiny green shoots. England stumbled to his feet and found himself surrounded once more by knee-high grasses and spring flowers.

He searched for his little colony, hoping that this time he would be able to catch the boy before he reached France. Before he grew to a man. But no matter how long he looked, England couldn't find the tiny golden cowlick his heart desired to see. He decided to sit and wait. He watched as the land around him filled with farms and roads and trains—dark plumes of smoke billowing from their engines as they chugged across the horizon and sound of honking automobiles in the distance. Still, he waited. By the time the entire landscape around him had transformed into something he no longer recognized, he realized that his little colony was never coming back. Distantly, he recalled something France had said about forever not being possible among their kind. It killed him to admit it, but he suspected the Frenchman was right.

England heard a boisterous laugh on the wind and he turned to watch as one of the new fangled flying machines swept down and landed on the field. The pilot's helmet covered most of his hair, all except for the blonde cowlick sticking up in the front.

"America?" England asked.

"I'm here," the other nation replied with a smile, before grabbing England's hand and pulling him into the aircraft's passenger seat. The plane seemed too rickety to support two people, filling England with a sense of trepidation. "Got it!" America cried as he started up the plane's engine. England felt himself being lifted up as they climbed higher and higher into the air, before finally nestling amongst the soft, downy clouds.

America turned around to face him from the pilot's seat, his smiling face only an arm's length away. "Maybe forever isn't possible… but second chances sure are," he said softly, leaning forward to plant a kiss on England's forehead. England sighed and lost himself to the sensation of floating. True sleep claimed him, cradling him in warm darkness.

Out of the darkness, England found himself reclining on a bed, with sheets the color of the earth and curtains made of sky. He felt a sense of impatient longing, he was waiting for someone, but he couldn't quite remember who. The sensation grew stronger and stronger, and he was tempted to leave the bed and start looking, but he couldn't seem to move. As he glanced at the curtains again, they fluttered open, revealing America standing at the foot of the bed. A naked America, his Florida standing tall and proud. The taller nation smiled and climbed into the bed, straddling England with his hands and legs. England glanced down and realized that he was also naked. Instead of embarrassment, he felt freedom and joy and an undeniable sense of rightness.

America leaned forward and began to coat England's body with hot kisses, creating burning marks of desire on England's pale skin. The wet kisses moved steadily southward, until America was licking the inner portion of England's thighs. England shivered with pleasure from each wet caress and then moaned as America began sucking him off. He gripped his fingers tightly in America's hair. England saw white spots flash in front of his eyes, nearly blinding him in his moment of release.

After a few breathless moments, England refocused his attention on the nation in front of him. America smiled and licked his lips, then lifted up England's legs and thrust in. England felt tight warmth and pleasure, but none of the pain that sometimes accompanied the act. England heard more than he felt each thrust pounding him into the bed. He might have yelled America's name. He wanted the amazing feeling to last forever, but it became harder and harder to hold on to the sensations and images, until all he was left with was the sound of pounding and the rush of blood in his ears.

England woke up to the sound of pounding in his head and soon realized that at least some of the pounding noise was coming from outside. He groaned as he slipped out of bed, coated in a sticky substance he really didn't want to think about at the moment. The light was too bright, his mouth tasted manky, and something was making a banging noise right below his window. He slammed open the window and glared at the people running around on the ground below. They were… playing some sort of game with a number of footballs and a peach basket attached to the house right below his window. England scowled. Canada and New Zealand had the grace to look somewhat sheepish, but America only smiled and waved.

"Hey, England!" America called. "Did you want to play basketball? Australia and New Zealand could use another member on their team, since Canada and I are kicking their asses." He tossed the football into the hoop and England recognized the sound when it hit the house and fell into the hoop as the pounding noise he had heard earlier… the pounding he had heard in his dream. He flushed bright red and slammed the window shut.

"I suppose that's a no?" America asked in confusion, his voice muffled by the closed window.

England shuffled into the bathroom and began cleaning himself up. He slapped cold water on his face and glared at his reflection in the mirror. What was wrong with him? He shouldn't be thinking about his former colony in that way. He spent a hundred years wanting the little boy back, mercilessly building an Empire that never brought him the same level of personal joy. Now some treacherous part of his brain had finally decided that actually, it really wanted the man instead. England decided to blame the alcohol. And France. Yes, this was France's fault. It usually was. With those familiar and comforting thoughts in mind, he crawled back into bed. He was grateful the pounding noise had finally stopped, even if that treacherous voice in his brain kept reminding him of how glorious the pounding had felt.

Sometime later, America knocked loudly on England's door. "You alright?" he asked when England opened the door, still looking tired and out-of-sorts.

"Other than a hangover which just might kill me, I'm ducky," England replied dryly, fully expecting the sarcasm to go over America's head. He wasn't disappointed.

America grinned. "That's good. If you're up to it, France is coming over later, so you have another chance to play basketball with us. Three-on-three this time."

England gave America a measuring look. The other nation was staying in his house, going out for drinks with him, and their relationship had greatly improved in the past decade. Maybe he really did have a second chance for a new relationship with America. If nothing else, he never turned down a competition with France.

"You know, I think I will," England agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes: Entendre sans comprendre = to hear without understanding. Yes, it's a bilingual pun. I tend to write France as a pervert, so I try to make him suave and intelligent to make up for the perviness. I'm sorry, I still love you France! Especially when you sashay off like a boss.
> 
> Historical notes: The America flag bearers did refuse to lower their flag to King Edward during the opening ceremony of the 1908 Olympics. During the 1936 Berlin Olympics, the American flag bearers refused to lower the America flag in protest to Nazi Germany. So, on the lists of things America doesn't like we have kings and Nazis. Seems pretty accurate.
> 
> Basketball was invented in 1891 by a Canadian American in Massachusetts. It really was originally played with a football (soccer ball) and they used a peach basket at first, hence the name. America is using multiple footballs here because they're practicing shooting hoops instead of actually playing. Unfortunately for England, he's going to forever associate basketball with sex now :)


	3. London Olympics 2012, Part II

_London Olympics 2012, Part II – The XXX Olympics_

"America, get up! You did not come all this way just to sleep through the Olympics." England's voice echoed in the stairwell, an unpleasant reminder that England's side of the bed was cold and empty. America grumbled as he pulled the sheets closer. England shouldn't have been downstairs; he should have been curled up by America's side, whispering sweet nothings instead of shouting from the kitchen.

"If you don't come down, fully dressed in the next five minutes, I am leaving without you," England added in an exasperated tone.

America glared at the clock. It said 8am, but in his heart (his capital city of Washington D.C.) he knew it was actually 3am. Truthfully, he had never been very good at dealing with jet-lag. He could manage the six hours of time zone change in his own country just fine, but time zones outside of his borders always messed him up. He wished—not for the first time—that England was five hours earlier than him instead of five hours later, that way England could wake up at 7am and America could roll out of bed at noon, and they would both be up at the same time. Alas, nature had seen fit to stick the British Isles in the Atlantic instead of the Pacific, so America would just have to make do with a highly caffeinated breakfast.

8:01am. One minute down, four to go. America grumbled, but nevertheless stumbled his way to the bathroom. There wasn't much point to staying in bed if England wasn't there with him. He took a very quick shower, tossed on some clothes (just whatever was lying on the top of the suitcase), and arrived at the bottom of the stairs with 30 seconds to spare.

"See, the hero always arrives just in the nick of time!" America proclaimed with a grin as he grabbed the travel mug of coffee England had prepared for him. The coffee was a touch burnt (America was never sure if England did it intentionally or if 'burnt' was just the ground state of being for all English food except tea), but it was far too early in the morning for America to care.

"If you had gotten out of bed the first five times I called you, you could have eaten breakfast," England replied tartly. This so-called 'breakfast' of some sort of blackened mess sat congealing in the frying pans on the stove. America's normally heroic stomach quivered in terror at the sight. America breathed a sigh of relief that he had decided to sleep in instead of braving the horrors of an English breakfast made by England himself.

"Don't worry, I can just grab some fast food," America happily replied, pleased by his own cleverness in finding a way to sneak in a trip to Mickey D's. He caught the unhappy frown on England's face and decided to make an attempt at this diplomacy business all the other countries liked to talk about. America leaned forward and gave England a good-morning peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the coffee, babe," he said with a grin.

"I still don't understand why you drink it," England replied, but he seemed mollified. "Come on, with all of the tourists clogging up the tube, if we don't leave now we'll be late." America followed England through the entry hall and waited impatiently as England grabbed his umbrella and locked the door.

"So, what are we going to watch first?" America asked as they began briskly walking to the nearest Jubilee line station. The day promised to be surprisingly warm and sunny for London, a good start for the games.

For the first time that morning, England smiled. "Archery," he replied.

. . .

The first thing America discovered was that archery was super boring. He thought it would be just like Robin Hood, with swash-buckling and witty one-liners and arrows splitting other arrows, but instead all of the bows were strange-looking and modern. If people wanted to use modern weapons, why didn't they just get a gun? A nice ground-to-air missile could take out all of the targets (and the rest of the Lord's Cricket Ground) with a single shot.

The second thing America discovered was the England had purchased decaffeinated coffee. Again. England really had no idea what he was doing when he bought coffee. America had to fight to keep his eyes open, and he didn't think it was simply because the archery was really, really boring.

Finally, America just gave up on trying to stay awake. With any luck, England would be too entranced by the archery competition to pay attention to his slumbering companion. America leaned back, closed his eyes, and was fast asleep within moments.

He quickly fell into the most amazing dream. Like all good dreams, it involved England. Like all truly great dreams, it involved England wearing very little clothing. England was dressed in a skimpy toga and he hovered in mid-air over the empty streets of London, holding himself above the ground with large, fluffy white wings. His toga extended to mid-thigh, leaving England's perfect legs completely bare except for his sandals and the leather straps wrapped around his calves. America absently noted that England didn't seem to need to flap his wings to stay airborne—how was he flying without any lift?—but then England flew a little higher and America realized that England had nothing on beneath his toga. At that point, all thoughts of aerodynamics flew completely out of America's head.

England smiled quite seductively for an angel, and he cocked his head to the side, as if expecting America to do something. America glanced around and for the first time noticed that he had wings of his own. His wings were black and leathery, like a bat's and America briefly considered that he might be dressed up as Batman—how cool would that be?—before he realized that he wasn't wearing a cape and therefore definitely couldn't be the Caped Crusader. Tired of waiting, angel England tucked his wings to his side and soared into the air, leaving America far behind. America grinned and launched himself into the air, chasing England through the streets of London.

They played a game of chase through the cityscape. Unfortunately, England had the home turf advantage, leaving America in the dust at every corner. America grew increasingly impatient—he knew that if he could only catch England, that he would very much enjoy his reward. America grinned with the sudden realization that if he was dressed like a devil, he really ought to try using some dirty tricks. He waited until England glanced back and then America closed his eyes, allowing his body to plummet to the ground.

With a sudden whoosh, he felt England's arms close around him, catching him before he could hit the ground. America instantly grabbed onto England and grinned slyly at the British angel's surprise. Taking advantage of the angel's shock, he switched positions so that he was the one holding England, both arms wrapped around England's waist, leaving their bodies pressed pleasantly close together. Angel England blushed fiercely and tried to free himself from America's grip. America retaliated by kissing him on the mouth. He felt England melt into his embrace. They rose ever higher into the air, grasped tightly together as England tangled his fingers into America's hair and twisted his tongue into America's mouth

They shared hot and hungry kisses in mid-air, hands grasping the other tightly as moist lips met skin. Angel England wrapped his legs around America's waist, giving America the opportunity to push England's toga up to his waist. America wasn't sure how he was going to take off his own clothes, but the angel solved that problem with a single flick of his wand. In a flash of bright light, America's clothing disappeared.

America's final thought before he was pulled out of the dream by a quick jab in his stomach, was that he was finally going to find out what zero gravity sex felt like. America grunted as England's elbow jab brought him out of his wonderful dream and back to the reality of boring archery. "I was just getting to the best part!" he complained, still half-asleep.

England huffed. "Honestly, I'm not going to let you sleep through the Olympics."

"Pff, I wanted to stay in bed with you for the whole Olympics. I never said anything about sleeping," America retorted with a grin. "Besides, you're the one who called them the XXX Olympics."

A pink tint dusted England's cheeks. "It's just a number," he protested indignantly, sensitive to all of the jokes about him being the erotic ambassador and a closet pervert. France had complained mightily when Paris placed as the runner-up for hosting the XXX Olympics, but he had eventually clapped England on the shoulder and said that England would make a good host given all the records his people held in the sex department. The wink and leer had not made England feel any better.

America grabbed England's hand and smiled. "Well, I'm glad you're the one hosting the XXX Olympics." He leaned closer and whispered in England's ear, "You know I like to lie back and think of you."

England flushed a gratifyingly dark shade of red and pointedly turned his attention back to the archery match, but he kept a hold of America's hand. "Don't worry, love, we'll have plenty of time later," he whispered back.

_Not quite as angelic as he appears,_ America thought to himself as a grin plastered itself on his face. He loved that England liked to adopt the persona of a proper gentleman, but America knew how kinky the old nation could be behind closed doors. In fact, he made a mental note to suggest that they try some angel-devil dress-up, because he knew England would love it.

America absent-mindedly pulled out his smart phone with his free hand to check his email and twitter. He was hoping for some fun distraction, but began to panic as he saw the current trends on twitter. An America politician was visiting London and had made all sorts of negative comments about London's preparedness for the games. The British newspapers were heavily mocking him, calling his trip "the worst bombing seen in London since the Blitz." But America didn't care what they had to say, he worried what England was going to think and he suspected that England was going to be furious. He did not want to spend the next two weeks with an unhappy England.

America sent a hurried text to his boss's private line and he marked it urgent.

_Say sumthing nice abt the london olympics or im sleepin on the sofa tonite!_ :(

After a few minutes, his phone buzzed slightly and a message from his boss appeared, reassuring America that he was aware of the situation and already had a message planned and ready to go. America relaxed and gently twined his fingers in England's fingers. He rested his head against England's shoulder and spent the rest of time happily day-dreaming about how much better archery would be if England competed while wearing a skimpy toga and wings.

Later that afternoon, England discovered the various twitter messages about the American politician's multiple gaffes, just as America suspected he would. England frowned as he made his way through the backlog of tweets criticizing the comments. But when he got to the last message, his lips curled upward into a gentle smile.

In keeping with our special relationship, the president made it clear that he has the utmost confidence in our close friend and ally, the United Kingdom, as they finalize preparations to host the London Olympics.

America grinned and hugged England from behind. Oh yeah, he was getting really good at this whole diplomacy business. "You'll have plenty of time for politics later. I want to tell you about this amazing dream I had…" he whispered into England's ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Britannia Angel and Sweet Devil Alfred have nothing to do with the Olympics, but they look damn hot together. Also, as you may have noticed, these stories are only loosely tied to the Olympics. Mostly it's just an opportunity for some shameless self-indulgence ;)
> 
> Yep, Romney made some unfortunate comments about London's preparedness for the games and the line at the end was the White House's official response, which honestly sounds like something Alfred could have written, except with better spelling.
> 
> For the six hours of time zone change within the United States, I'm including Alaskan and Hawaiian time. If you include Puerto Rico, American Samoa, and Guam, there are actually nine time zones, but I think Alfred would only count his states.
> 
> Finally, my apologies to archery fans! I actually like archery, but I don't think Alfred would enjoy it very much. He definitely seems the sort to prefer guns to bow and arrows.


	4. London Olympics 1948

_London Olympics 1948 – Victory Celebration_

America ducked and weaved and finally caught his teammate's eye through the rapidly moving press of bodies. Although he was slightly shorter than the other basketball players, he made up for the disadvantage in height with his ability to get in the right place for the perfect shot. The teammate quickly passed him the basketball and America took the shot. The ball whooshed through the net, earning their team two more points. With barely any time left on the clock, the gold medal was as good as theirs.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, America glanced into the crowd, trying to spot England among the thousands of other faces in Harringay Arena. Given the size of those bushy eyebrows, finding his lover should have been a piece of cake. America thought he had spotted the British nation earlier, but he couldn't find him now. He hastily returned his attention to the game and grinned as one of his teammates score another goal. At this rate, they would have three times as many points as the French team by the end of the game. Of course, it was inevitable that the American team would win. America was too awesome to lose at a sport he invented.

The game ended with a 65-21 victory for the United States and the crowd cheered wildly. The fact that it was a mostly British audience watching a French defeat may have played some role in their enthusiasm, although most Brits were now on friendlier terms with their French counterparts given the shared horrors of World War II. America joined his teammates as they shook hands with the other team before returning to their locker room. He grinned happily. America was really looking forward to a nice shower and then a victory celebration with England. Nobody relished French defeats quite like England.

The locker stalls were now almost completely empty since all the other basketball teams had left after their elimination from the competition. As he passed by one of the empty aisles, a hand suddenly reached out to grab America and pulled him sideways into the aisle with a surprising level of strength. America was about to push back when he recognized the smirking face of his assailant. He would recognize those eyebrows from a mile away.

"England! How'd you get into the locker room?" America grinned and would have pulled England into a fierce kiss but he remembered how the older nation felt about kissing in public areas. So he was more than a bit shocked—but in a really good way—when England leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't their normal greeting kiss, there was a hunger and urgency in the kiss that left America feeling a little weak in the knees, not that he would ever admit that a mere kiss could turn a hero like him into jelly.

"Follow me," England whispered, grabbing America's hand and tugging him along. It was a good thing England had a tight grip on America's hand, because America's thought process completely derailed when he noticed what England was wearing. A thin white cotton tank top covered England's lean body and tiny white shorts revealed his slender legs. It was just the standard basketball player uniform, but there was a huge difference between seeing the outfit on an average basketball player, and seeing England wear it. On the average player, the high-cut shorts enabled freedom of movement, while the light cotton material reduced discomfort from sweating. On England, the shorts showcased a fine pair of legs, while the light-weight tank top displayed a hint of the lean, toned body that gave England his wiry strength.

During the War, America's soldiers had covered the army barracks with pin-ups of dames with mile long gams. England's perfect legs put them all to shame. America wasn't normally one given to writing poetry, but he wanted to compose a sonnet about 'Legs so fine, I want to make them mine.' Or better yet, a song! He wanted to take a thousand photographs so he would never forget the image of those sexy legs striding right in front of him. America couldn't tear his gaze away from England's legs, other then to briefly move his gaze upwards to admire the snug fit of the shorts as they covered England's firm rear. America—caught up in thoughts about stealing all of England's trousers so the island nation would be forced to wear shorts for the rest of his life—barely noticed as they entered a different locker room.

America wasn't clueless, but he was easily distracted and England's legs were proving to be an amazing distraction. England, on the other hand, excelled at focused thinking and strategy, a skill that proved just as useful in the bedroom as in war. Still holding America's hand, he led them both to the shower stalls, picked a corner stall, and closed the curtain. When America was finally able to pry his thoughts and eyes away from England's legs, he grinned, finally realizing that he was getting his victory celebration a little earlier than he had expected. That or England was taking his obsession with cleanliness to new levels.

"I double-checked the schedule and the wrestling team won't be arriving for another two hours," England explained. Yep, it was definitely going to be a victory celebration.

America smiled. Only England would put so much thought into a spontaneous tryst. "You're amazing," he said, shaking his head affectionately.

"You're sweaty," England retorted with a chuckle. "Let's see what we can do about that, hmm?" he added, and with a playful smirk, England turned the shower knob, drenching them both in a warm spray of water. America gasped in surprise, shocked that England had turned on the water while he was still dressed.

"We're still wearing clothes!" America protested.

"Oh, you're right. That will be a problem," England replied casually, as if taking showers while clothed was something he did every day. "You will help me take care of that problem, won't you love?" England asked seductively. America could do nothing but gape. England should have looked like a drowned rat, with his hair plastered to his forehead and his wet clothes clinging to his wiry frame, but instead England looked incredibly sexy. The white cotton molded itself to the contours of his body, leaving very little to the imagination. The wet cotton revealed the firm muscles of England's abs and the growing bulge between his legs. America's eyes devoured every part of England's body: from the line of water highlighting his calves to the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Of course, he had seen England naked before, but somehow it was sexier to see him almost naked.

America had apparently spent too much time gawking and not enough time undressing, because England ran his hands underneath his own top and slipped it off, tossing the sodden ball of cloth into the shower corner. Then he stepped forward, bringing his body flush against America's, pressing America against the far wall of the shower. He slid his hands along America's abs, gently caressing the firm muscles beneath his fingers. With a quick motion, he lifted up the thin tank top and tossed it into the corner as well.

The cotton barrier between them now removed, England leaned forward to move his tongue in small circles around America's nipples, drawing eager moans from the larger nation. England grasped a nipple with his lips, twisting it firmly as America shivered with pleasure. America responded by rubbing his hands along England's buttocks, twisting and bunching the wet fabric. They pulled together in a kiss and America thought that kissing in the spray of the shower felt just like kissing in the rain. Except that this water was warm and they were both nearly naked. So really, it was better than kissing in the rain.

When they pulled back for air, England grabbed the waistband of his own shorts and prepared to shimmy off the thin cotton fabric, but America firmly grasped his hands and pulled the shorts back up.

"Not the shorts," America murmured in a low and husky voice.

England raised an eyebrow. "The shorts will only get in the way," he protested as he tried to pull down the shorts once more. America stopped him again.

"You think I can't handle a bit of cotton?" America asked with a grin, eager to face any challenge. He slid one hand across England's stomach and cupped the bulge between England's legs, rubbing and squeezing with his broad hand. With his other hand, he used one finger to trace the cleft between England's buttocks, circling his finger to find the most sensitive spot. The wet shorts limited his finger's inward movement, but didn't prevent America from applying firm pressure once he found the right spot. He could feel England's shivers of pleasure as England arched in response to his touch. England lifted his hands from the elastic waistband of his shorts and wrapped them around America's neck, pulling the taller nation even closer.

Moaning breathlessly, America bent his head forward to suck on the tender spot on England's neck. He could feel England's hot breath close to his ear, reminding him that his own erection wanted attention. It took all of his self-discipline to maintain his rubbing motion with one hand and the pressure from his finger with the other. He loved the feeling of holding England between his two hands, pleasuring the island nation from both sides. England moaned America's name and ground his hips forward. The continuous spray of water muted their cries and coated their bodies in a constantly moving layer of water.

America could tell from England's half-lidded eyes and urgent moans that the other nation was close to climax. Time to bring out the big guns. He whispered huskily into England's ear, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love as deep, the more I give to thee."

"Are you… hnn… quoting Shakespeare?" England managed to gasp out, his voice caught between shock and arousal. England freed one arm and slid his hand into America's shorts, quickly grabbing America's bulge and rubbing furiously.

The wonderful sensations coursing through his body made America buckle his hips forward, but he maintained just enough presence of mind to continue rubbing England at a frenzied pace. America focused on the lines he had carefully memorized and panted, "Make but my name thy love, and love fulfill. And then thou lov'st me… hnn… and my heart be still." He slipped his own hand inside England's underwear, rubbing furiously all the while, and captured England's lips with his own. In that moment, each sensation felt like it was magnified a hundred-fold. The firm press of England's lips, the warm water binding them together, and the pulsing beat of life against his hand. England cried out and collapsed bonelessly against him.

The sensation of England's cry next to his mouth and the firm press of England's body weight against him was enough to undo America. He shuddered and saw flashes of white. America held England close as he slid down to a seated position on the tile floor. He gently moved England's legs so that the island nation lay half-curled in his lap, his head resting against America's shoulder and his legs extending to nearly touch the wall. England always fell into a languid, euphoric haze for several minutes after climax, but America never teased him about it (even though he teased England over everything else). America liked the feeling of snuggling against England's body as he waited for the smaller nation to reorient himself. He felt incredibly protective with England wrapped in his arms. America had a pretty good idea that England let no one else see him quite so trusting and vulnerable.

England's hand still lay nestled between America's legs, pressing against the layers of wet cotton and the warmth of America's flesh. America gently removed the hand and allowed the spray of water to wash it clean. He grasped the hand with his own and let himself simply enjoy the feeling of England breathing gently against his chest. It felt good to know that England was safe and alive. During the height of the Blitz, America had truly worried that England would die before America entered the war. At the time, he hadn't understood the panic that gripped his heart, he just knew he had to do something to help. In a way, the declaration of war had almost come as a relief, but victory had been the sweetest taste of all.

For one beautiful spring day, England's people had abandoned their typical self-restraint, and their nation abandoned his inhibitions along with them as he celebrated Germany's unconditional surrender in the streets of London, surrounded by the cheering British populace. In the glow of victory, he had gripped America's labels and kissed the younger nation soundly.

At that moment, something in America's heart had clicked, as the final puzzle piece fell into place. His panic at the thought of losing England finally made sense, his constant desire to stay glued to England's side during the war finally made sense, and his new-found longing for the feel of England's lips against his own made the most sense of all. When he saw England pull away with a slight look of panic on his face, he realized that England was going to play it off as a harmless joke. He also realized that he didn't want England to treat it as a joke. So America grabbed England and kissed him back. The dam between them broke completely and in a haze of mutual lust they made their way back to England's London house, holding hands as they pushed their way through the crowded streets.

They didn't make it as far as the bedroom. They jerked each other off on the sofa and promptly fell asleep, comfortably wrapped in each other's arms. America woke to the feeling of fingers running through his hair, but the fingers were gone by the time he opened his eyes. He caught the expectant look in England's eyes and realized that what he said next was going to determine the future course of their relationship. So America, being America, blurted out the first thing that came into this head. "We should have done that years ago," he said. England chuckled and protested that he had dropped hints the size of tanks since the Great War, but he still gave America his softest, most genuine smile in response. When America left to continue fighting in the Pacific, he couldn't help but feel that everything was finally right with the world.

Now, with England once again wrapped in his arms and the scars of war beginning to fade, America fervently wished that the peace and prosperity could last forever. He wanted him and England to last forever. He caught England's eyes and grinned. "Did you like the Shakespeare? I always thought he was prim and proper, but it turns out he's a big pervert at heart, just like you babe."

"You misquoted the sonnet, but it was a lovely effort nonetheless. And… I dare say I liked it nearly as much as you liked the shorts," England admitted with a sly smirk.

America whistled in amazement. "Really? That much? Because you look fucking fantastic in those shorts. I would pay good money to see you spend the rest of the games walking around in basketball shorts."

England chuckled as he removed himself from America's lap and stood up. "Don't tempt me love. My government has taken every step to keep the games within budget. I'm afraid they might take you up on that offer."

They cleaned themselves up in the shower and changed into the spare set of clothing that England had placed in a nearby locker. England had forgotten to account for the shoes, so they walked home in wet sneakers, but neither cared. America stayed unusually silent on the walk home, still caught up in his thoughts about the war and the fragility of peace and the meaning of it all in terms of his relationship with England. He was never very good at introspection, but he felt the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. England said nothing, likely going over debts and rations and costs in his head. The games had earned the title of the Austerity Olympics for a reason.

After awhile, America finally broke the silence. "You know, I'm glad you kept the games. They belong here. After Germany hosted in 1936, you should be the one to pick up the torch. And I thought the doves at the opening ceremony were a nice touch."

England nodded. "Despite the cost, I think you're right. It would have been cheaper to let you host, but it's good to see my country with something to celebrate." He smiled with a hint of pride. His government had managed to run the games on a shoe-string budget and even if they didn't take home the most medals, they still had plenty of reasons to be proud.

America looked at England and felt a swell of emotion that he didn't know how to put into words. He thought his physical actions could say everything he wanted to say about their relationship without letting words get in the way, but he worried that England thought America only enjoyed his London visits for the (admittedly amazing) sex. England had been trying too hard during this visit, as if he had decided that the only way to keep America by his side was with sex. Even seeking him out in the locker room felt like something England would do because he worried that America would leave unless England could find new ways to keep him pleased.

When America couldn't find his own words, he borrowed someone else's. He had tried to use Shakespeare's, but he didn't think England realized what he was trying to say in the heat of the moment.

"I meant it, you know," America finally said, as a faint blush tinged his cheeks in anticipation of his next words. "My love for you is as deep as the sea."

England stopped dead in his tracks and an expression of disbelief crossed his features. "You're just saying that to get me back into those ridiculous shorts," he said with a forced laugh.

America grabbed England's hands with his own and met England's gaze square on. The flashes of worry and hope in those green eyes made his stomach twist uncomfortably. America shook his head gently and said, "No, I really do love you. Heck, I loved you for years and I didn't even notice. So I'm sorry to just spring this on you, but I want you to know that you could throw away the fucking shorts and I would still love you. You don't need shorts or anything else to keep me."

They stood together in silence as the sincerity in America's words tried to overcome England's doubts. He needed England to understand that they were more than fuck buddies or a temporary alliance. And their relationship was based on more than just sex, amazing legs, and mutual lust. He wanted England to understand that no matter what happened to the British Empire, he still loved England. Heck, America had never been fond of the British Empire, he was happy to see it go.

England finally nodded and broke away from America's gaze. As he resumed walking, he maintained his firm grip on America's hand, their clasped hands swinging back and forth between them as they walked. "You never did explain how you found your way onto the American Olympic basketball team," he casually remarked.

America laughed. "Are you kidding? I've been playing since they invented the sport. They had to beg me to join. Plus, I look damn fine in a basketball uniform," he added with a wink.

"I dread what all these gold medals will do to your already over-inflated ego," England retorted. His expression softened as he admitted, "But you did play a good game against France." After several moments of silence, he flushed as red as a cherry and softly admitted, "And you know, I love you too."

America's broad smile stayed on his face for the rest of the day. He really loved winning gold medals, but nothing during the entirety of the games made him feel quite as happy as hearing those three words from England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I saw that America beat France for the gold medal in basketball at the 1948 Olympics, I knew I had to include it. I know nothing about basketball, so apologies for any inaccuracies. The shower scene just sort of happened after that. England is wearing the basketball uniform to sneak into the locker room like the awesome spy he is. Also, I'm not positive about the Olympic basketball uniforms, but regular basketball outfits in the 1940s did include the short-shorts I've described here. What can I say, I have a slight (read: major) obsession with England's legs :)


	5. London Olympics 2012, Part III

_London Olympics 2012, Part III – Making Sweet Music_

"What's this?" America asked in curiosity as he lifted up what looked like a ping-pong paddle that had been attached to the headrest of his seat. The strange device had nine small bulbs in a three by three grid and it connected to the seat with a single cord. America pressed the bulbs, but couldn't make the gray board do anything interesting. England had insisted on arriving half an hour early, so they were left with nothing to do but sit and watch as the stadium began to fill with the thousands lucky enough to receive tickets to the opening ceremony.

England smiled. "It's a surprise."

America sighed and slouched into his seat. At least he had finally managed to get a proper caffeinated cup of coffee, so he was in no danger of nodding off during the performance. England would be pissed if he fell asleep during the opening ceremony.

He looked again at the strange devices near every seat throughout the stadium and a thought began to flicker in America's head. They reminded him of something he had seen at an earlier Olympics and he was sure that it was one he had hosted. America laughed when he finally realized why the paddles looked so familiar.

"What's so amusing?" England asked, frowning at the thought that America was laughing at his lovely new Olympic stadium.

America gestured towards the paddle and smiled. "I just remembered where I'd seen these things before. In 1984, we gave each audience member a colored card so they could hold them up and form a map of the world. Looks like you're doing similar, but with light displays. Glad to see you copy from the best, babe."

"Oh please, it's not like you can patent audience participation," England retorted, annoyed that one of his surprises had been guessed.

America's further attempts at small talk only served to annoy England more (England being what America liked to describe as "nervy as a cat" at the moment because 1 billion people were watching to see if he could match the pomp of Beijing's ceremony), so he pulled out his smart phone to play games. He was totally addicted to Angry Birds Space. Why was everything so much better in space?

England frowned at his lack of manners, but decided that a rude America was slightly preferable to the destructive power of a bored America. After passing a few new levels, America glanced over at England and caught the irritated scowl on his face. America quickly switched over to a new game and shifted so he was holding the phone between their seats. "Hey, wanna help me beat Canadia at Words with Friends?" he asked cheerfully.

England regarded the screen dubiously. "Is that similar to Scrabble?" He knew the Germany had been making all sorts of new board games lately, but England preferred to stick to the classics.

"Yep!" America showed him how the game worked and they quickly joined forces to beat Canada. Most of the points came from England's suggestions ("queue" in particular was a masterstroke), although America still thought that "dudebro" was totally a real word and it would have even used all of his letters. Canada soon realized what was going on and chastised America by text for letting his boyfriend help him win. America suggested that Canada could let his boyfriend play to even the odds, but England wryly noted that Prussia would be no help at all unless Canada had the letters to spell "awesome."

Before they even realized how much time had passed, attendants swept through the aisles covering each section of the audience with a stream of shimmering blue cloth, undulating in the wind like the waves of the ocean. America put the phone away, ready for the show to start.

After the opening bell, the ceremony began with a pastoral scene of what America liked to think of as "Merry Olde England." The program called it "Green and Pleasant Land," which made sense because green was England's favorite color. Charming milkmaids and shepherdesses danced through a landscape filled with farm animals, cottages, fences, and maypoles as four children's choirs from each part of the United Kingdom sang sweet melodies.

"Doing a reenactment of the Hobbit?" America asked with a grin. England rolled his eyes and pressed his finger against his lips, kindly reminding America to shut the fuck up.

They watched in silence as a man in a top hat climbed up the main hill and began to recite lines from Shakespeare's Tempest. America chuckled to himself. Of course, England had to include Shakespeare in the opening ceremony. But at the end of the lines, the music took on a darker tone and hundreds of drummers took the stage, filling the stadium with a pulsating beat. The performers danced as they dismantled the center of the field, revealing a scarred metal floor beneath what had been green grass only moments before.

Smokestacks rose into the air as the music reached a crescendo and America leaned forward in his seat. The show was starting to get interesting, but he couldn't tell whether the progress was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing. He glanced over at England to see how the island nation was reacting to the transformation. England looked thoughtful, especially when he saw the suffragettes march onto the field. America dimly realized that the point of the piece was to show that progress could be good in some ways and bad in others. It was an uncomfortable thought for a nation that always put his faith in technological progress. He did what he normally did when uncomfortable thoughts crossed his mind, and resolved to stop thinking about it. They both bowed their heads when the performers froze for a moment of silence to remember the dead from the two World Wars.

Soon the dancing and drumming resumed, reaching a fever pitch. A river of molten melt flowed towards the center of the field, forming a ring of fire in the very center. America couldn't resist making the obvious joke. "I'm pretty sure this scene was also in Lord of the Rings," he whispered to England, earning himself a sharp jab in the ribs from the annoyed nation.

Four rings moved across the top of the stadium as the ring from the center of the field also rose up. The five met in the very center, overlapping to form the Olympic rings. America caught his breath when cascading golden flames began to fall from the rings. He clapped excitedly when the fireworks ended. "That was pretty cool," he told England.

"It's not over yet," England reassured him.

The giant screens in the stadium began to show a film of James Bond meeting up with the Queen at Buckingham Palace. They boarded a helicopter and then flew to the stadium. When the film ended, the helicopter appeared above the stadium and stunt actors dressed as Bond and the Queen leapt out into the field as the theme song from the James Bond films played. America hummed along to the tune and chuckled in appreciation at the Union Jack flags on the parachutes. He made a mental note to order his own American flag parachutes after the ceremony ended.

And then came the weirdest part of the night as a small army of nurses danced the lindy-hop while children bounced up and down in lighted beds. America chalked it up as a British thing. Still, it was rather amusing that the ceremony had borrowed one of his dances. He even remembered trying to teach the lindy to England in the 1930s, but England had just scoffed and said it was merely a fad that would fade quickly. He was going to tease England relentlessly until the other nation admitted that it was an awesome dance, and definitely way cooler than the old-timey dances England still enjoyed.

As J. K. Rowling climbed the hill, America crossed his fingers and hoped that she would read some Harry Potter. Man, he really loved that series. Instead, she read something a bit frightening about the monsters being real as dark creatures swept onto the stage and surrounded the children's hospitals beds. America really hoped that there wouldn't be any ghosts. N-not that he couldn't handle a few ghosts. He was just worried it might scare England. America gripped the other nation's arm tightly to make sure he wouldn't get scared. He tightened his grip as a giant Voldemort rose above the field. That dude was seriously creepy!

When dozens of Mary Poppinses floated down using their umbrellas, America laughed in relief. Mary Poppins was England's patronus, so they would be able to vanquish Voldemort, no problem. He relaxed his grip, but kept one arm curled around England's arm, just in case any of the monsters reappeared. England shot him a fond look, which America chose to interpret as 'Thank you, my hero, for protecting me from totally scary things.'

America nearly bust his gut laughing at Mr. Bean's antics while the London Symphony Orchestra performed Chariots of Fire. He normally found orchestras kinda boring, but it wasn't so bad when he had Mr. Bean to entertain him. And the fart joke at the end was sheer genius.

By the time the ceremony reached its final performance section, America was ready for something really exciting. He watched as teens with mobiles prepared for a party and he gasped in surprise. "Are you doing a tribute to technology?" he asked with a teasing grin.

"Don't be daft, it's about music."

Then began a rollicking dance party tribute to over four decades of British music. As hundreds of performers danced, an eclectic mix of British songs filled the stadium. America happily recognized songs from The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, David Bowie, and Queen. The audience began to stand up and dance, so America pulled England out of his seat and led him as they danced the New York hustle and the California two-step. Because of their nice seats in the front, they had plenty of room for fun turns and spins. England had only limited experience with modern dances (which he defined as anything invented in the past century), but he was a skilled enough dancer to smoothly follow America's lead. America sang along to the songs he recognized and mumbled words to the rest. When the performance reached its climax of clips from romantic British films, America pulled England into a dip and kissed him soundly. He pretended that the audience's applause was all for them.

They returned to their seats and clapped for the performance they hadn't really watched. The house at the center of the stage lifted to reveal Tim Berners-Lee, the inventor of the internet, as the audience paddles flashed to reveal a message saying "This is for everyone." America cheered wildly, along with the rest of the audience.

"You know, I just realized that the internet is for porn because you invented it," America whispered to the nation at his side, drawing forth a furious blush on England's cheeks. Nothing fazed England in the bedroom, but any sort of public discussion of sex made the normally stoic nation turn scarlet. America loved it. He hummed the tune from Avenue Q to see if he could draw any further reaction from the British nation.

America's antics stopped as a video clip showed the progress of the Olympic torch as it made its way through the United Kingdom prior to the start of the games. He squealed with joy (but in a very manly way), when the torch passed beneath a shower of fireworks at Tower Bridge. The sheer number of fireworks during the opening ceremony made America a very happy camper indeed.

However, America sobered as the stadium watched a dance tribute to the victims of the subway attacks on July 7, 2005. He remembered how excited England had been the day London was announced as the host of the Olympics for 2012 and how devastated he had been the day afterwards when four of his own citizens set off bombs in the London tube, killing innocent civilians. America put his hand on England's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

The parade of nations began and America started to fidget. His eyes glazed over as he watched thousands of athletes walk along the track in their national uniform and then plant their flag on the center hill. "Why are there so many countries?" he asked plaintively.

"You should pay attention, you could stand to learn a bit about different nations, such as the fact that they exist," England responded, but he had to admit that watching the parade was a little dull after the previous song and dance numbers.

By the time the United States arrived, America was very grateful for his cup of coffee. As the American contingent entered the stadium, he leapt out of his seat and cheered wildly for his athletes. They looked fantastic in their Ralph Lauren suits and America loved the red, white, and blue ties and scarves. He returned to his seat after all 530 Americans had passed by. "Bet you'd love to see me in that outfit," he whispered to England.

"Anything is better than your normal attire," England replied calmly, but America could see the faint blush on his cheeks. He decided to find a way to special order one of the outfits.

Ten minutes later, the athletes from Great Britain arrived, marking the end of the parade, and the entire stadium erupted in cheers. America cheered too, although he couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous white track suits with gold collars. And England made fun of his clothing.

After a few more speeches and musical performances came the lighting of the torch. Seven young athletes lit the copper petals of a giant flower and the flames spread around and around the circle, until each petal was its own point of light. As the music swelled, the petals lifted to form one solid torch of light, a testament to the unity of the participating nations.

Then the fireworks display began, filling the top part of the stadium with exuberant bursts and flashes and streams of red, gold, and white lights. America gasped in delight at the gorgeous show. For the first time that night, he was rendered completely speechless.

At the very end of the ceremony, England turned to him and asked, "So, what did you think?"

"That was awesome," was America's breathless reply.

. . .

America was still prattling on about the amazing fireworks several days later when England entered the bedroom wearing his new angel outfit. He coughed to get America's attention and then thoroughly enjoyed the gobsmacked look that crossed America's face. England twisted his shoulders to show off the rather attractive pair of wings attached to the top of his costume. He thought they would look tacky, but they were actually quite elegant. Unsurprisingly, America's gaze quickly wandered south and then decided it wanted to take a nice long vacation appreciating England's southern hemisphere.

"Come now love, are you drooling?" England asked with a smirk. America looked up at the sound of England's voice, but from the dazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he wasn't paying the slightest attention to England's words. England readjusted the halo on his head, giving America just a little more time to come back to his senses. The slack expression on America's face was certainly very flattering, but England had no intention of spending the entire night being ogled. He had better plans.

America licked his lips and smiled, finally recovering from the brain freeze that short-circuited his thoughts whenever England showed off his slender, perfect thighs. He surprised England by beginning to sing an Elvis Presley song, taking a step forward for each line of the song. "You look like an angel," he sang sweetly. "Walk like an angel." He pretended to strum a guitar. "Talk like an angel." He winked. "But I got wise…"

He grasped England's waist and pulled him close until their faces were almost touching, still singing all the while. "You're the devil in disguise... Oh yes you are... The devil in disguise." He closed the small gap between them and eagerly kissed England's lips. As usual, the kiss began gently and sweetly, before America applied more pressure and then his tongue, turning their kiss into a passionate melding of their mouths. England had spent decades perfecting their kisses and he would gladly spend decades more.

England chuckled when they finally pulled apart. "I thought we agreed that you were going to be the devil. But not tonight. I'm afraid that outfit is taking a little longer."

"That's alright, you'll just have to settle for me being devilishly handsome," was America's chipper reply. Suddenly a flash of mischief shone in his eyes. "Wait here just a second, I need to grab something!" he ran out of the bedroom, his steps quickly receding past the hallway and down the stairs.

For the next few minutes, England waited at the edge of the bed, absently tugging on his hem to pull the toga a little lower. He knew that his legs drove America crazy, but he felt cold and a little irritated to be kept waiting. He retrieved lube and a condom from the nightstand and set them on the edge of the bed within easy reach. Just as England prepared to get up and find America, the other nation returned to the bedroom. Now it was England's turn to catch his breath. America had somehow gotten his hands on one of the Ralph Lauren suits that his athletes had worn during the Opening Ceremony. In the crisply pressed navy suit, America did indeed look devilishly handsome.

"Babe, are you drooling?" America asked with a grin. He pulled out a child's toy bow and arrow set from behind his back and handed it to England. "I thought we could do archery tonight, since you make a damn sexy cupid."

Holding the bow and arrows with his right hand, England used his left to grab America's tie. He yanked the taller nation forward and planted a kiss on his lips. He nibbled on America's lower lip, then slipped his tongue into America's mouth, enjoying the hot and intimate feeling. A cool breeze sent a shiver up England's legs and he realized that America was lifting up his toga to his waist, revealing England's lack of underpants. England pulled back on the tie, using his leverage to draw America closer to the bed.

England set the bow on the bed and lifted up an arrow. "Do you know what this part of the arrow is called?" he asked seductively. America shook his head.

"This is called the shaft," England purred. He pushed the shaft between his lips and began caressing the slender piece of wood with his tongue. He licked up and down the shaft, enjoying the look of yearning on America's face.

He teasingly pulled the arrow shaft away from his mouth. "And this," he spoke while gently caressing the only colored feather on the arrow, "is the cock feather." He licked the feather and glanced over at America with half-lidded eyes. America was watching him intensely, his blue eyes smoldering with desire. England reached for the lube and the condom, holding the lube with one hand and the condom and the arrow with the other. "Your choice tonight," he said in a low and husky voice. The angel outfit had been America's idea, so he wanted to give control back to America. England loved the constant give-and-take in their relationship; it kept their bedroom activities always new and enjoyable.

America plucked the arrow from England's grip and licked the shaft seductively, his saliva mixing with England's. He gently pushed England to a seated position on the bed, and then kneeled on the ground before him, placing his head at the same level as England's crotch. The sight of America's flushed face next to his crisply-ironed suit created a pool of warmth in England's stomach. America lifted up one leg and undid the leather wrappings covering England's calf, before pulling off the sandal and tossing it to the side. He repeated his actions on the other foot as England leaned back, moaning softly. England ignored the shoes' trajectories. He had removed everything fragile from the bedroom decades ago. Some people child-proofed their homes; he sex-proofed his.

America placed a hand on each leg and smoothly slid them up until each met the edge of England's toga. He lifted up the flimsy cloth to reveal the bare thighs underneath and bent forward to plant kisses along England's inner thigh, making his way steadily inward. England forgot all about the cool breeze, because now his legs felt like they were on fire with each press of America's lips. The wet kisses turned to licks and America began licking England's shaft, moving his tongue in a slow and teasing manner. After he coated the skin with saliva, he used the feathers of the arrow to gently brush against the tip, drawing throaty moans from the island nation. Within moments, England was completely hard, and America placed his mouth around the entire shaft, moving forward until he could feel all of England inside of him. England dropped the condom and lube onto the bed and tangled his fingers into America's hair, grasping tightly as America moved his head up and down. The wonderful wet sensation sent shivers of delight up his spine.

"Not yet," England panted, as he felt himself approaching his climax. "You never… hnnn… want to release the shaft too soon."

America raised his head and grinned, then stood up, clearly preparing to remove his trousers. Passionately desiring to run his hands all over America's lovely suit, England leaned forward to begin unbuckling America's belt. He removed the belt in a smooth gesture and tossed it to the side of the room. America kicked off his shoes, smiling at the thunks each dress shoe made as they hit the wall. England gripped the waist of the nicely-tailored navy trousers and pulled them down America's thighs, revealing the stars and stripes pattern on America's briefs. England paused, taking a personal moment of silence to mourn the fact that America had willingly put on a nice suit only to have England remove it minutes later. But passion quickly overruled fashion, and England resumed pulling until the trousers pooled at America's ankles. America smiled and kicked them off as well.

America reached for the buttons of his jacket, but England stopped him with a gentle hand. "Leave the jacket on," he murmured.

"As you wish," America replied. He pushed England further up on the bed and then lifted England's legs onto his shoulders. The fabric of England's toga pooled around his chest, revealing his abs and all of his lower body. The wings felt strange pressed against his back, but England didn't care enough to bother to take them off. America grabbed the lube, slicked up his fingers, and quickly inserted the first finger. He began to hum and then to softly sing, "Earth angel, earth angel... Please be mine..."

England moaned, closing his eyes in pleasure. He loved the sound of America crooning his old classics. America had a warm voice, perfect for singing sweet and low.

America continued with the second verse and the second finger. "My darling dear... Love you all the time... I'm just a fool... A fool in love with you." England opened his eyes and felt his heart melt at the gentle smile on America's face. The song should have felt incongruous, but it matched perfectly with America's soft and tender love-making.

England cried out America's name as he felt the third finger. America leaned forward and kissed England. "Ready, babe?" he asked, his breath warm against England's face.

"Fire away," England whispered.

America pressed forward, waiting for the wince on England's face to pass before he set a steady rhythm. England cried wordlessly with pleasure as he felt America's shaft hit the bullseye. He buckled his hips forward and continued to shout America's name in time with each thrust. America reached forward and with a few well-timed tugs, pushed England over the edge. As white spots filled his vision, England heard the larger nation cry his name and felt as America pulled out and flopped on the bed next to him.

The last thing England remembered before he fell asleep was America pulling him close and covering them both with a blanket.

The next morning saw them back to their usual outfits (America in his t-shirt and jeans, England in his sweater vest and black trousers) as they ate breakfast together in England's newly remodeled kitchen. America happily munched on cereal while England sipped his morning tea, earl gray with a touch of sugar and milk. It felt charmingly domestic and England wished, not for the first time, that they could spend more than the occasional visit together.

"You never asked me what my favorite part of the Opening Ceremony was," America said as he finished the cereal and reached for his (now caffeinated) cup of coffee.

"I didn't have to. It's rather obvious you liked the fireworks best."

America stuck out his tongue. "Nope! The fireworks were totally amazing, but they weren't the best part."

England took another sip and spent a few moments in thought. "Then I suppose the entrance of your athletes was your favorite section? Your ego is rather legendary my darling narcissist."

"Hey! It's not narcissism if it's true," America protested. "Besides, you're still wrong. I love my athletes, but they weren't my favorite part."

England sighed. "Oh fine, I assume it was seeing my nurses doing the lindy-hop. You've already mentioned that bit a thousand times."

America laughed. "Maybe if it had been you doing the lindy-hop, but it definitely wasn't that. I still don't get your fascination with national healthcare." He leaned forward and grinned. "Are you all out of guesses?" America asked.

"We need to leave soon for the diving event, so you might as well tell me," England replied casually, unwillingly to show America that he had piqued England's curiosity.

"I liked the tribute to four decades of music best. Wanna know why?" He didn't wait for England's response. "Because all of those songs were from the time when we've been together. Each and every one of them reminds me of you."

England stared for a long moment and then smiled. "You're competing for the gold medal in sap, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as the gold medal in loving you."

England shook his head fondly. "You do realize that this medal won't count towards your total? I know you're eager to beat China."

America laughed. "China can take home all of the medals. I've got something better."

He stood up and walked over to England's chair and then leaned forward for a sweet morning kiss that tasted of coffee and tea. He pulled back with a smile in his bright blue eyes and England knew the smile was reflected in his own eyes.

"I've got you, babe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned/appearing in this fic:
> 
> "The Internet is for Porn" from Avenue Q  
> "Devil in Disguise" by Elvis Presley  
> "Earth Angel" by the Penguins  
> "I Got You Babe" by Sonny and Cher
> 
> I have this headcannon that Alfred is a magnificent crooner. He's been inspired here by the musical acts in the Opening Ceremony :)


	6. Chapter 6: Omake: 1908, 1948 and 2012

_London Olympics 1908 – Blame France, Part Deux_

"Australasia?" America asked in confusion as the flag bearers began to march past. America squinted, suspecting he needed a stronger prescription for Texas. He turned to look at the country in question and asked, "I thought your name was Austria?"

"Australia," the friendly, dark-haired nation corrected with a laugh. Australia took the all-too-common butchering of his name in stride, unlike Austria, who always played a furious Chopin melody whenever someone referred to him by the name of the land down under.

"We went with Australasia because Australia and I are competing together," New Zealand added. The young Dominion leaned forward, waving at the small cohort of competing New Zealanders as they walked past.

"Yep, Zea didn't have enough athletes to compete, since there are only so many events you can train sheep to do," Australia teased his younger sibling, leaning over to ruffle New Zealand's fluffy blond hair.

"At least I wasn't the one who suggested using kangaroos as boxers," New Zealand retorted.

America grinned at the good-natured siblings. They really reminded him of someone, but the name escaped him at the moment. He focused his mind back on the more important matter at hand. "Boxing kangaroos? That sounds incredible!"

Australia's smile broadened. "I know, mate! I was also considering wrestling crocodiles. Next time you visit, you should come have some fun with the crocs and the 'roos."

America nodded excitedly and continued to chatter with Australia about their plan for the 'best zoolympics ever.' England simply sighed and tried to ignore the fact that his former colonies were absolute nutters. He told himself reassuringly that it certainly wasn't his fault, but for once he was having trouble figuring out who to blame. He finally decided that in the absence of a better choice, he would stick the blame where it normally fell.

And on the other side of the stadium, France sneezed.

. . .

_London Olympics 1948 – M &Ms and Cheerios_

"Hey, England! Thanks for letting me stay at your pad!" America stood grinning in the doorway with a ridiculous number of bags dangling from his broad shoulders.

"It's no problem," England gestured for America to come inside and hid his wince as America tracked dirt onto his nice carpets. "Why so many bags?"

"My sporting equipment! I wanted to make sure I had time to practice so that I definitely take home all the medals. A hero has to get the gold, you know."

"Mmm," England replied noncommittally, thinking of his own slim odds in winning many of the coveted gold medals. "Are you hungry?" he asked. He knew it was a somewhat pointless question (in all the years he had known America, was there ever a time when America wasn't hungry?), but he asked anyways because he was a gentleman.

America laughed. "Oh, you don't have to worry about giving me any of your disgusting food, I brought my own!" He held out a bag of small o-shaped cereal pieces and brightly-colored chocolate candies. Why were they brightly colored? Wasn't brown a perfectly acceptable color for chocolates? Who thought that bright red and bright blue would make it taste better?

"What is that?" England asked in distaste.

"M&Ms and cheerios!" America responded with his mouth full, making England scowl even more at his lack of manners. "My folks just invented them a few years back. You want to try some? They're incredibly delicious." America offered the open bag to England.

England just pushed it way. "Gods no, that looks disgusting."

"England, you're not one to talk about disgusting food." America grinned, still munching away on the chocolate and dry cereal mixture.

"My food is perfectly lovely you uncultured oaf!" England snapped back. "And if you just eat sweets and cereal the entire time you'll be too fat to win any medals." He glared at America. Only two minutes into America's stay and they were already in one of the never-ending arguments. America just seemed to unthinkingly push all of England's buttons.

England forced himself to calm down. Everyone complained about his food (just proving their stupidity), so there was no reason to get extra upset at America. "Well, you know where the bedroom is," England said with a wave toward the stairs. "I'll be in the kitchen eating my delicious lunch, if you need anything."

America nodded and carried his bags up the stairs with no visible effort, muttering under his breath that he wasn't fat because he clearly worked out all the time.

As England ate his own slim lunch, it occurred to him that America might have brought his own food to be kind, since he knew England was still rationing. England had been worried about how he was going to feed his bottomless pit of a boyfriend. But why couldn't America just say so, instead of hiding his kindness behind an insult? This thought in mind, England made his way up to the bedroom and watched from the door as America unpacked his clothes and equipment.

"I wouldn't mind trying some of those M&Ms now," he said.

America perked up immediately and brought over the bag. "Sure thing, England!" He watched with a happy grin as England carefully ate a few of the colorful chocolate pieces. "What do you think?" America asked.

"It's very sweet," England replied, earning a huge grin from America, who considered 'very sweet' to be the highest praise possible for food.

Almost as sweet as you, England added to himself.

. . .

_London Olympics 2012 – Oh, Canada_

At the gathering of nations after the opening ceremony, America spotted his brother and immediately glomped him. Canada was stronger than he appeared and familiar with exuberant American affection, so he simply smiled indulgently and patted America on the back.

America pulled back and grinned happily, slapping Canada on the shoulder. "Hey bro! I didn't realize you were here! I didn't see your athletes in the parade of nations."

"What?" Canada asked softly. "B-but, they were wearing 'Canada' across their chests!" He had helped designed the uniforms himself, certain that this year other countries would finally notice him.

America shrugged. "Huh, doesn't ring a bell."

"I don't recall seeing them either," England added.

"Maybe next time you should use neon lights!" America suggested helpfully, before he grabbed England and made a beeline for the buffet.

Canada sighed. He really needed something to cheer himself up, so he went to find Prussia. He found his boyfriend unsuccessfully arguing with Olympic officials about whether 'Prussia' should have been included in the Parade of Nations. So far, the officials weren't giving in, despite his description of his 'awesome' outfits.

"No one noticed my athletes even though I wrote Canada on the uniforms!" Canada complained softly, once he caught Prussia's attention.

"Well, it's a stupid parade because they won't let the awesome me in it. You know what we should do?"

Canada smiled. "Sex and pancakes?"

"Fuck yeah," Prussia replied eagerly, already licking his lips in anticipation.

No one noticed when they left the gathering. All things considered, there were certain benefits to being invisible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheerios and M&Ms were both first sold commercially in 1941 and became popular during WWII. Since McDonald's didn't start until 1955, I decided it would be more historically accurate to give America a month's supply of Cheerios and M&Ms. I am *all* about historical accuracy, obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't watch the Olympic equestrian events now without thinking about smexy, smexy USUK, then my mission is accomplished. You're welcome ;)


End file.
